


no one taught me how to love you (don't know the rules)

by jamesstruttingpotter



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, it's the dirty dancing AU that literally no one asked for, tw: historical abortion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25006906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesstruttingpotter/pseuds/jamesstruttingpotter
Summary: "Move your hips," he tells her, gruff, and the slight pressure he exerts on her body helps her slot into the steps that mirror his. It's nothing complicated, just the same steps they've been reviewing in the class her mother drags her to every afternoon, but the bass shivers down her spine in a way that makes her want to press closer to his warmth. The urge startles her."Try a spin," he says, before snapping her out; she whirls to his left and somehow manages not to trip as he pulls her in close again. She looks up at him, surprised, and there's a furrow in his brow that she's never seen before."Not bad, Princess," he says, before letting her go. She watches him sink into another knot of people, his shoulders loosening as he goes, and tries not to keep an eye on him for the rest of the night.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 17
Kudos: 78





	1. i'm sleeping with all the lights on

**Author's Note:**

> don't know where this sudden burst of productivity is coming from, but as long as it's here i'm gonna keep throwing my half-assed AUs at you guys - hope you like this one! second part will be up... uh, sometime soon?
> 
> should be fine to read even if you haven’t watched dirty dancing?? and as always, i haven’t watched past like S3 of the show.

It's nearly eleven at night when Wells shows up at her cabin, arms overflowing with three giant watermelons and an equally big smile on his face. 

"I promise I'll explain when we get there," he tells her, passing a melon over, and she frowns.

"Get where?" she asks, but follows him anyway when he refuses to answer.

The campground at Kellerman’s (slogan: family friendly fun for all ages!) is pretty expansive, but after three weeks of being dragged around by her parents she’s nearly memorized the entire landscape, which means she knows instantly when he turns toward the staff’s quarters. A dim light illuminates the “KEEP OUT” sign that’s posted near the bridge; Wells seems content to ignore it entirely. Biting her lip, she catches up to him: “Are you sure we’re welcome here?”

“I snagged an invite,” he replies, grin bright in the near darkness. “Now come on, I promised I’d be there half an hour ago.” 

The party has already reached a near-unacceptable level of humidity when Wells swings the door open, still juggling his two watermelons. Clarke pauses, blinking away the sudden wash of red light, letting the music engulf her as she takes in the gyrating bodies not ten feet from her.

"Coming?" Wells asks. She raises her chin just a little and plunges after him, trying not to notice the way the others inch ever so slightly away from her path. Their stares are hot on the back of her neck, but she keeps her gaze trained on Wells' shoulder blades. Her own melon is cool and slippery in her arms.

A tiny table emerges behind the crowd, wedged into a back corner between the speakers and an armchair. There's a couple bottles littering the surface, damp condensation peeling the corners of their labels. Clarke spots Octavia almost immediately with a feeling like dread; her thin fingers are wrapped around the neck of one bottle as another girl (charades instructor? Maybe swimming) tips a two liter of Coke into a sticky cup.

"What the fuck," Octavia says as they approach, and Clarke bites the inside of her cheek.

"She's with me," Wells says, tone even, and Octavia rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, clearly," she says, giving Clarke a quick once-over. "It's the  _ being _ here part I'm struggling with. You know staff aren’t supposed to mingle with guests."

He shrugs in response, setting the melons down near some chips. Clarke passes her own melon to him silently.

"Clarke, right?" the girl with the Coke says, sudden. "Raven. Your mom came by my section of the dining area last night."

"Yes," she replies, maybe terser than she intended. She tries on a smile. "Sorry I'm crashing the party."

Raven shrugs too. "Want some rum?"

"We can't give Clarke Griffin rum," Octavia hisses, and that's almost definitely what prompts Clarke to take the Solo cup from Raven's hands and immediately take a sip.

Wells laughs. "Octavia, come on, I've known her all my life. She’s not gonna tell Kellerman about this party or anything."

"You're not exactly a great reference for this crowd, Richie Rich," Raven says, but her tone is more teasing than anything. Her arm sneaks across his shoulders, her cheek resting against his shoulder, and Clarke realizes with sudden clarity why Wells has been so absent lately. She opens her mouth, maybe about to comment on the pink dusting his cheeks, when she feels someone else approach from behind her.

She turns to see Bellamy Blake, shirt sleeves rolled up and a scowl on his sweaty face as he looks at her cup. "Who brought the princess?"

"Jesus," she mutters reflexively, and the two other girls turn to look at her.

"She's with me," Wells repeats, his tone a little more guarded than before.

Bellamy raises his eyebrows. "Right, your opinion means a lot to me."

Clarke drains the rest of her drink and puts it down on the table with a little more force than necessary. "You know what, I love this song," she says, feeling warmth rise up her neck and spread across her face. "Anyone else coming?" She slips past Bellamy's shoulder and into the crowd; a half second later, Raven and Wells are at her side.

"I happen to trust Wells," the former says at Clarke's curious glance, and then the beat slides into something that makes half the floor cheer.

Clarke only has to fumble around her square inch of floor space for a few seconds; the crowd suddenly parts again, but this time it's for another girl, leggy and brunette, skirts flaring around her thighs as she spins, gold ring glinting in the low light. Half a beat later Bellamy catches her around the waist and then they're skating around the floor in tandem, hips rolling in a way that makes Clarke feel the alcohol thrumming through her veins maybe faster than she would've otherwise.

"Do you know each other?" Raven asks, watching her watch him.

Clarke shakes her head. "No. I've just been taking classes with him."

Raven snorts. "I forgot he got roped into doing those this year." The pair falls into a quick dip that prompts more catcalling from the crowd. "You guys don't get along?"

Clarke keeps quiet; Raven looks a little more understanding than she'd expect.

"Yeah, well. Bellamy hasn’t ever really trusted the clientele," she replies, and something in her tone makes Clarke drop the topic.

"Is everyone good at dancing here?" she asks instead, and Raven laughs.

"Most of these people are the dance instructors, yeah. But this is just..." Her expression makes Clarke fidget, just a little. "This is just what college kids do in the summer with alcohol and loud music. It's not like they're doing the waltz and going steady."

"Isn't Roma still seeing that other waiter, the one going to Yale?" asks Wells. Raven's lips thin in disapproval and she shakes her head without saying anything else.

Clarke just watches the couple execute sequence after sequence, perfectly attuned, and says, almost without thinking, "It'd be hard for anyone to compete with chemistry like that."

Raven laughs. "Bellamy and Roma? Not since we were kids."

"Oh," Clarke replies. "Sorry, I just assumed."

“Yeah, everyone does." She turns to Wells, abrupt, and her expression melts into something more wicked. "Come on, Jaha, let's see how much more I can put my leg through before I have to sit down."

Wells tangles his fingers with hers, but turns back to look at Clarke. "You gonna be okay?" he asks, and Clarke nods before he disappears.

The song fades slowly into another one, slower and sultry, and she decides to take the opportunity to refill her drink.

Bellamy sidles up to her as she pours just a little too much liquor into her cup. "Too good to dance like this?" he asks her, and the smug tone of his voice makes her want to snap back in response. Instead, she takes a deep breath and turns to rest back against the table, facing him. His temples are slick with sweat; she can see Roma watching them with mild interest in the background.

"You've seen me in classes - there's no way I can keep up with this," she points out, and watches something in his face shift imperceptibly.

Suddenly, he's holding a hand out to her, silent, and Clarke puts down her cup almost without thinking. His hands are warm against her own, and he grips her closer than he ever has in class. Despite herself, she flushes.

"Move your hips," he tells her, gruff, and the slight pressure he exerts on her body helps her slot into the steps that mirror his. It's nothing complicated, just the same steps they've been reviewing in the class her mother drags her to every afternoon, but the bass shivers down her spine in a way that makes her want to press closer to his warmth. The urge startles her.

"Try a spin," he says, before snapping her out; she whirls to his left and somehow manages not to trip as he pulls her in close again. She looks up at him, surprised, and there's a furrow in his brow that she's never seen before.

"Not bad, Princess," he says, before letting her go. She watches him sink into another knot of people, his shoulders loosening as he goes, and tries not to keep an eye on him for the rest of the night.

She spends half a week pretending not to make eye contact with Bellamy whenever they’re in the same room together, which honestly, is harder than it sounds. On the fifth night after the party, Finn catches her as she’s trying to escape the gazebo. Wells has disappeared again, giving her no excuse to not follow him down to the kitchens.

“They always keep a bunch of good stuff down here in case guests get hungry at off-meal times,” he explains, tugging at his waiter’s collar. He swings the refrigerator door open to survey the contents, narrating them aloud to her, but a glint of light catches her attention instead.

She looks to see Roma huddled in a dark corner, tears muffled by the hand she’s holding over her mouth. The same gold ring shines on one finger: she’s wearing her on-shift dancing uniform, as if she’s supposed to be at the gazebo with the rest of the dance staff right now. Her eyes are fixed on them, wide, and Clarke jerks away to tug at Finn’s sleeve. “You know what, I’m not too interested in a snack. Let’s go meet my parents in the dining room,” she says, tone leaving little room for discussion. “I bet my mom has more questions about Harvard,” she continues, and even though he looks nonplussed, he lets her lead him out. 

She ditches him after they reach the dining room again, asking where the ladies’ room is, then immediately runs out the side door, heading back to the gazebo. 

She sees Miller first, recognizes him as the guy Bellamy is sometimes talking to in the dance studio before she shows up. He looks slightly alarmed when she takes hold of his arm, but the expression melts into one of concern as she murmurs in his ear. He slips toward the center of the gazebo with Clarke on his heels. She sees Bellamy a few paces away, teaching a pink-faced Mrs. Kane how to navigate a waltz; he straightens up as they approach, and Clarke barely has a moment to apologize to Vera before they’re taking off back toward the big house. 

“Where is she?” Bellamy asks, and Clarke leads them to the back entrance, into the glittering darkness of the kitchen. Roma is still there, and her limbs fold into the space between Bellamy’s arms as he drops to his knees. 

“I was wondering where you were,” he says, voice soothing. “Alright, let’s get you back to the cabins.”

“Is she going to be okay?” Clarke asks Miller, keeping her own voice muted. He hesitates. 

Bellamy scoops Roma up, her head resting against his shoulder, and surveys the both of them with a strangely tired look. “Can you go ahead and make sure no one’s coming?” he asks Clarke, and in her surprise she nods silently. “Miller, can you give Kellerman some excuse?” The other man nods and slips away, presumably back to the gazebo.

“Let’s go,” Bellamy prompts, and Clarke ducks through the back doors to check the way ahead. It is, thankfully, dark and quiet, with most of the crowd still at evening activities, but she keeps an eye out as Bellamy strides along behind her. Roma seems to have exhausted herself, and is limp and quiet all the way back. Once they reach the staff housing grounds Bellamy takes the lead, steering them toward a small, red cabin near a stream. The door is unlocked and he shoves it open with his shoulder, Clarke following. 

The inside is sparsely decorated, the only thing out of place appearing to be the neatly folded clothes resting on top of a dresser - she realizes with a jolt that the clothes are his, and that the cabin must be too. He’s already placing Roma on the mattress as she looks around; the other girl curls into the pillows silently, tear tracks still winding down her face.

The awkward silence lasts for only a few minutes, during which Bellamy draws the blankets around his partner - after those moments pass, Raven is suddenly there, a deep frown etched in her face.

“What’s happening?” she asks. “Is this about him?”

Bellamy shoots her a silencing look before facing Clarke. “You should leave,” he tells her.

“Being rude to Clarke isn’t going to fix things for me,” Roma interjects, to her surprise. “Come on, Bellamy. Leave her alone.”

He looks like he has more he wants to say but grits his jaw against the words. Clarke glances at Raven, who’s got the same sharp look on her face. “What did he do?” she asks.

“He said he’s not going to help with the doctor,” Roma says. “With money or with getting me there,” and something about how her hand flutters to her midsection and away again has all the pieces slotting into place for Clarke.

She says nothing, instead choosing to watch as Bellamy rifles through his kitchen cabinets to find ancient-looking tea bags, as Raven sits on the edge of the bed, scowl deepening. Roma is quiet, too, but when Bellamy finally hands her a steaming mug, she looks up at him with surprising, sudden intensity.

“I’m going to go on my own,” she says.

“I’m going with you,” he replies, just as fierce.

“The hotel will kill you,” Roma retorts. “Plus you need the money. I know you do. NYU doesn’t pay for itself.”

“And where am I supposed to find a partner? Everyone else is booked with their normal jobs for the night.”

“I’ll do it,” says a voice, and Clarke almost doesn’t recognize it as her own until everyone turns to stare at her. At Bellamy’s incredulous look, she doubles down. “You’re talking about the showcase, aren’t you? The one at the hotel down the road?”

“Yeah, a dance showcase, Princess. No offense, but you’re not exactly a pro.”

But Roma’s expression has turned appraising. “You’re already teaching her though, aren’t you?”

“That’s not the same thing and you know it.”

“Yeah, but you could get her there. You have a month.”

“Jesus, Roma, I’ve been teaching her how to do a box step and a couple turns, not - “

“Yeah, but you’re a good teacher, Bell, if anyone could, it’d be you.”

“I don’t think you have a choice, Bellamy,” says Raven, and her tone sounds final. “You’re right, no one else is available, and it’s not like you can tell Kellerman you need a new partner for the night. Clarke can go where she pleases whenever.”

He makes a frustrated noise, somewhere in the back of his throat. There’s a slight pause. Clarke can feel her heart, absurdly, beating double time. 

“Why are you even volunteering?” he asks, finally, voice almost harsh enough to mask the underlying curiosity.

Before she can answer, Roma says, “Sometimes people just do good things for no reason, Bellamy.” Her voice is tired, and Clarke shifts from one foot to the other, watching emotion after emotion flick across his face.

“Meet me at the studio tomorrow,” he finally says, not looking at her, and she directs her nod at Raven before slipping out the door.

“So,” says Monty Green during breakfast the next day, “I heard you’re taking some private lessons with Bellamy Blake.”

Clarke focuses on stirring milk into her iced coffee. “Huh.”

Monty’s grin is too knowing for her comfort. “Come on, Clarke. My sources are reliable.”

“Yeah, I’m sure your pillow talk is riveting,” she shoots back, no bite to it, but Monty persists despite the pink in his cheeks.

“What’s the occasion? Summer fling? One-sided crush? Potential relationship?”

“Oh, I didn’t realize Miller’s report was missing such crucial details.” She sticks a straw into the ice, checks her watch. “I gotta run.”

“Not even a hint?” Monty’s voice is plaintive, and she throws a wave over her shoulder as she leaves.

She can hear the music before she even rounds the corner to the dance cabin; the sound sends a fresh ripple of nerves fluttering down her stomach. It’s slower than what she’s heard in the group lessons, sultrier in a way that reminds her of sticky cups of rum and Bellamy’s hands on her hips. She bites her lip and swings the screen door open, grip tight on the cold condensation of her cup. 

Bellamy and Roma turn to face her simultaneously, the former’s stormy expression tempered somewhat by the latter’s hesitant smile. “Clarke,” she says, “thanks so much for showing up.”

“No problem,” she replies, and Bellamy snorts.

“We’re going to show you what the routine looks like, after which I expect you’ll want to back out,” he says, and she fights the swell of irritation that rises in her chest at his tone.

Roma rolls her eyes but says nothing as she starts the record over again. The beat drops, soft and smooth, and Bellamy’s hands span Roma’s back as they slide into their first turn. Something about how they move together makes everything look effortless, like every dip is as easy as breathing. It’s a dynamic Clarke is sure she has no hope of replicating; her heart starts beating uncomfortably fast as the music winds down.

“I’ll help guide you through it the first few times,” Roma says, breathing deep after the exertion. Bellamy, sweat beading at his temples, says nothing. Clarke forces herself to put her iced coffee down before kicking off her shoes.

“We’re gonna start right away with that?” she can’t help but ask, and is rewarded with a snort from Bellamy.

“Absolutely not. We’ve got to make sure you can handle the basic step.” He’s in her space suddenly, hands on her shoulders to push them back and away from her neck. “Tall posture, arms out to frame. It’s a mambo, like we’ve talked about in class.”

The familiar starting point settles her a little. His palms are warm against her own. “Alright,” she says, and at his nod, Roma starts the music.

Clarke promptly steps on his foot.

“Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, but doesn’t let go. “Listen to the beat, princess. We’ll start on the two. One, two, three, four, one,  _ two _ \- no, you go  _ backwards _ first, we talked about this yesterday in class!”

“I’ve got a private session in thirty minutes I need to set up for,” says Roma, a smirk on her face. “Am I dismissed, Professor?”

“Get out,” he replies, not looking away from Clarke. At the sound of the door closing, he lets go of her hands with a frown. “Look,” he says, “we’ve got less than a month and not a lot of time between my shifts. Are you sure you can do this?”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slow. “I’m sure,” she says.

He shakes his head, but still takes her hands again. “Alright. On two.”

It’s  _ hard _ , despite the lessons she’s been taking. She very quickly realizes just how much he’s been pulling back during class, how basic the steps he teaches are in comparison to the routines real professionals can do in their sleep. Not thirty minutes in, sweat’s drenching the back of her blouse despite the fans whirring overhead. Bellamy pushes her, ruthless, for two hours, after which her calves burn from staying on her toes and her head hurts from squinting at her feet. 

“Fine,” he pants finally, letting go of her hips. She’s not sure if she’s disappointed or relieved. “That’s good enough for today.”

“I can keep going,” she says, stubborn, and he looks like he’s considering a smile. 

“I have a tango class in twenty minutes,” he tells her instead. “But I’ll see you tomorrow, here at the same time. We have… a lot to do.”

“Fine,” she replies, and after a beat of awkward silence, she turns to leave. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of him pulling off his shirt; at the shift of muscles in his back, she feels heat pool in her stomach and she quickly looks away, hurrying out.

It goes on like this for a couple weeks, Clarke slipping into the dance studio whenever Bellamy has an hour or two free, Roma sometimes there to act as guide and intermediary, but most often not. After the first few days Clarke can’t help but wear shorts and tank tops every time they meet, the summer humidity and constant exertion conspiring to knock her out with heatstroke if she wears anything more conservative. Bellamy, apparently, takes this as an invitation to get more comfortable himself, and she spends a not-insignificant number of minutes pretending not to stare at him half-naked. She barely has any more time than that to dedicate to this, given the rigor of her training, as well as the frequency of her mistakes.

“Jesus Christ, princess,” Bellamy hisses one afternoon, throwing his hands up in the air. “For the last time, don’t tilt forward so far!”

“I’m  _ trying,”  _ she snaps back. They’re both soaking wet and standing in the middle of a lake, sun beating down heavily on the tops of their heads and shoulders. Clarke’s pretty sure the bridge of her nose is burnt and peeling. Bellamy’s freckles jump out in even starker relief than usual, especially as she’s only a foot away. “It’s hard to get a running start in the water.”

“You won’t be getting a running start during the routine, either,” he says, impatient. “At least this way I’m not dropping your ass on hard ground.”

“Yeah, I understand,” she grumbles before rolling her shoulders back.  _ It’s just one lift _ , she thinks, and an edge of trepidation still creeps in. 

“This’ll never work if you don’t trust me,” he says, after a beat, and his eyes seek hers. “You’ve got to trust that I’ll support you.”

She takes a deep breath. Sunlight bounces off the ripples in the water and back onto the planes of his face, his collarbones, his bare chest. “Alright,” she says, as much to herself as to him, and backs up to start again.

He crouches a little in anticipation. Water laps at his sternum. “One, two,  _ three _ -” 

And she’s airborne, his fingers wrapped round her waist, tight and steady. She tenses her abdominals, arches her back without pushing her weight forward. It works for two, three,  _ four _ heartstopping seconds before she overbalances again, the roughness of his palms slip-sliding against her bare ribcage until she plummets into the lake. The cool water is a shock after the heat of his hands, and she isn’t sure whether the thrill that goes through her is from the chill or his touch.

“Okay,” he says once she surfaces, sputtering. “Alright, let’s take a little break.” There’s an odd half-smile on his face when he says it, against all odds. It makes him look younger, almost, or maybe that’s from how his wet curls plaster against his temples. Either way, she feels a matching grin bloom on her face as rivulets drip into her eyes, helpless. The urge to hide it is immediate and she lets her body ease and melt backwards to float, water lapping at her knees and jaw.

After a minute, he joins her; she can feel the water dip and roll as his weight shifts. She closes her eyes against the sun’s warmth and listens to birdsong, somewhere near the shore.

“Have you always been a dance instructor?” she finds herself asking, and for a while silence is her only answer.

“I used to work construction,” he says finally, once she’s nearly given up on him, and she waits again. “Some guy came into the luncheonette one day, said the studio down the street was looking for teachers. Gave us some training and an audition.” She tilts her head a little sideways to get a look at him without getting water in her ear; he looks pensive. His eyebrows are drawn slightly together above eyes that reflect the clouds above them. “Pays a little less than building houses, but it’s safer. And uh - it’s easier to care about. This, I mean. Than houses I’ll never live in.”

A hum comes from somewhere deep in her throat. “It’s easier to care about art,” she says, and thinks about how her mother’s scalpel feels in her hands versus the weight of her own paintbrush.

His snort takes her a little by surprise. “We can’t all afford to think like that, princess.” But it’s, maybe, less sharp than it would’ve been a few days ago. The water beneath her shudders again as he rebalances to land on his feet. “Come on, a couple more times and we can head back.”

After a few weeks, Clarke finds it hard to reconcile Kellerman’s dance teacher Bellamy to private dance tutor Bellamy, mostly because the former is upbeat and patient and has every student eating out of his palm. Teacher Bellamy always has a smile for everyone in the studio, never gets tired of reminding people what the steps are, and always makes sure partners have enough room for the Holy Ghost between them, especially when he’s demonstrating with a particularly handsy girl their age. 

_ Tutor _ Bellamy, on the other hand, scowls nearly every second of every session, snaps at her when she forgets the second dip or the sixth turn, and pulls her close enough to make heat coil at the base of her spine. She becomes intimately familiar with the shape of his collarbone, their height difference being what it is. She watches sweat pool in the hollow of his throat, feels his fingers tighten possessively around her waist, her palms. The music to their routine, which she’s heard so many times it’s started to seep into her dreams, is languid and sultry in a way that makes her think of palm trees and aching heat. It demands that they take their time with each other’s bodies, the pace it sets causing his palms to drag agonizingly slow up her ribcage, her neck. It would make her laugh if she had enough breath in her lungs. Instead, she has to fight down shivers. She swears he can feel her trembling anyway, the heat in his gaze hotter by a handful of degrees.

She starts to look for glimpses of this other man every time her mother drags her to another group lesson at the studio. After a while, she can pick out the slight tightening of his jaw when he has to repeat his instructions for the third time, the way his eyes flare when someone’s hand lingers a little too long against his chest. It comforts her, in some bizarre sense, when she sees the corners of his facade peel back. It feels like a secret, held between her palms: Bellamy’s irritable, honest self, visible to her even when he’s papered over it for everyone else.

He starts picking on her as his main volunteer when demonstrating new steps, maybe because he’s getting sick of being manhandled. It gets surprisingly easy after the first few times, the feel of his palm exerting pressure against her spine familiar after hours of practicing their other routine, and soon enough she becomes something of a prodigy in their classroom. It’s easy steps, nothing that’ll win them trophies anytime soon, but it eases the tension around his eyes when he can get through a demonstration without also having to wade through his volunteer’s mistakes. 

“I didn’t know you had a knack for ballroom dancing. Maybe we should’ve started you on lessons when you were younger,” her mother half-teases once, and Clarke mutters a noncommittal response. 

The truth is harder to parse. Her body has learned somehow to read Bellamy’s cues like second nature, and his in turn has learned to respond to hers, a dance wholly intertwined with yet completely separate from the one they’re ostensibly showing the rest of the class. Their secret sessions leak through to their public ones as well, as hard as they try: more often than not, Clarke will finish their demo much closer to Bellamy than she started, barely room for a magazine between them. Her foot will slide too far to the left and he’ll spin her instead of dipping, an easy improvisation that’s telegraphed from her muscles to his in the space of a breath. 

It must be an instinct born from years of dancing, she thinks sometimes, one that every dancer can feel with her partner. For all that Kellerman’s likes to pretend it’s a refined pastime, the fact still remains that dancing, even ballroom dancing, is an intimately physical activity, one that demands at least some level of familiarity between two people’s bodies. She thinks she can see glimpses of this in the way Bellamy treats his friends, and the way they treat him back: his arm slung around Roma’s shoulders while they eat, Miller’s thigh pressed up against his while they sit side by side, Octavia’s legs wrapped around his waist as she hurls herself onto his back. It’s in the way they’ve begun to treat her, too, as she slowly but surely finds herself pulled into their circle: Miller’s hands on her shoulders as he steers her toward where they’re drinking beers on his porch, Raven’s calves propped up in her lap as they watch a movie, Roma’s fingers brushing against hers when she hands her an iced coffee in the studio. 

But sometimes, when she and Bellamy are together at dusk, when sunlight waxes thick and golden through the windows, when his thumbs send jolts of electricity down her spine as they trace the hollows of her waist, well. Sometimes she thinks her body is learning his in a way that has little to do with dancing at all.


	2. won't you come and turn them out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for content regarding abortion - in line with the material covered in the movie. Please read with caution!
> 
> Edit: as user allycat13 rightfully pointed out in the comments section, I should mention that this story, like Dirty Dancing the movie, is set in America in the 1960s. This means that the below mentions of abortion and the characters' experiences with it are not true to modern-day procedures available in the U.S. today. We have, thankfully, progressed n terms of what is medically and socially available to folks with uteruses who would like to obtain an abortion, and I don't wish for anyone to read the below and think that that's what an abortion would entail today. I'm definitely not a subject matter expert, but please feel free to reach out to me if you're reading and have any further questions or concerns. 
> 
> Also, as long as we're here - I stand with women. I was not aware of the discourse when I posted this chapter, but I've since become aware and would like to clarify that I personally have divorced my enjoyment of this TV show and these characters from the cast. Believe women.

The hotel showcase is less than a week away when Roma finds Clarke after dinner, squabbling lazily with Wells over whether apple pie or brownies are a more appropriate dessert. She flicks a friendly wave at Wells before grabbing Clarke’s wrist. “We’ve got to find you an outfit for the show,” she says, and Clarke is a little alarmed to hear something wavering behind her brisk tone.

Maybe Wells can hear it too, because he claps a hand on Clarke’s shoulder and says, “I’m off to find Raven,” before leaving them alone. She therefore follows the other girl back to her cabin, where it looks like the dance instructors’ communal wardrobe has imploded on every surface. Roma’s movements, usually quick but elegant, take on a jerky, harried edge as she clears off a corner of her mattress for Clarke to sit.

“You’re a little shorter than me, but maybe we can pull something together from the other girls’ clothes,” she says, and Clarke bites her lip but holds her peace, for now. 

“I think I’m around Octavia’s height?” she says instead. “Maybe Harper, too.”

Roma nods and pulls a few dresses out from underneath a truly massive pile of fabric. “Alright, let’s start with these, then.”

Clarke’s gained a not-insubstantial amount of muscle tone after all these weeks with Bellamy; near-daily dance practice is definitely more physical exertion than she’d been used to, and she’s proud of the fact that she no longer needs to catch her breath after every bit of new footwork he throws at her. Still, a month and a half is nothing compared to the years of experience the dance instructors have got, and Octavia in particular seems just genetically inclined to have rail-thin arms and a flat stomach. Clarke, who’s stuck trying to wrestle her way into the other girl’s clothes, grumbles halfheartedly about how unfair this is until Roma’s got a reluctant smile on her face. 

They finally settle on a somewhat modest light blue number that skims Clarke’s ankles and leaves her arms bare. Roma waits until Clarke’s fully zipped into it before meeting her gaze in the mirror.

“Thanks again for doing this,” she says.

Clarke frowns a little. “No problem. Roma, what -”

“I just want you to know,” she continues, and it suddenly feels almost as though she’s rehearsed these words, “that this isn’t - I’m not that person. I really thought he loved me, you know? I didn’t think he’d cut and run on me like this.”

Clarke turns around to face her, brows knitting together. “This isn’t your fault,” she says, and Roma shakes her head, mute. “It’s not! I don’t know who this guy is, but he’s an asshole, full stop. This isn’t something that any half decent person would just run out on. He should be here to help you, especially with your appointment.” She reaches out to grip the other girl’s hand, impulsive. “And it’s, you know - it’s okay to get this done. It might not feel like it because people are shitty about it, but it’s perfectly fine to want to do this.”

Roma takes a deep breath. It rattles in her chest, sharp. “I’m just - not ready for a baby,” she manages, and Clarke tightens her hold on her hand. 

“That’s okay,” she says. “That’s okay.”

It takes a couple more minutes for Roma to collect herself. Clarke finds a box of tissues buried in the clothing on top of her dresser; she accepts it with a watery smile. “Okay,” she says eventually, crumpling the Kleenex in her hand. “Let’s find you some shoes.”

“I still don’t know how I’m supposed to do all of this in  _ heels,”  _ Clarke mutters, and Roma laughs.

The next day, Bellamy shows up to the studio where Clarke’s stretching, an iced coffee in his left hand. “Thanks,” he says, handing her the cup, and Clarke blinks.

“Does this mean you’ll go easy on me today?” she asks, and he snorts.

“Don’t push it.”

The morning of, Clarke wakes up to someone banging on her cabin door. She stumbles out of bed to find Octavia on her porch, sunny smile on her face. “Got any plans today?” the younger girl chirps.

“Very funny,” Clarke mutters, rubbing her knuckles into her eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Bell says he’ll meet you at seven tonight, ready to go. Raven and I can help you get dressed and with makeup before then.”

Clarke leans back to look at the clock on the wall. “Okay, but it’s 9am now.”

Octavia shrugs. “We figured you’d be nervous all day. Want to hang out at the lake?”

“Don’t you guys have work?”

“Yeah, we’re taking turns with you. Come on,” she adds, impatient, as Clarke feels a strange warmth creep into her chest. “Throw on a bikini and let’s grab breakfast.”

“This is really sweet of you guys,” Clarke says, and Octavia rolls her eyes.

“Well, this whole plan would fall apart if you worried yourself to death before the show.”

It’s a fair point, and spending the day by the lake with the two of them does help. Still, Clarke can’t help but feel a knot of anticipation in her stomach the whole day, one that intensifies until she feels almost like she’s about to throw up by the time they head back to Raven’s. Octavia pushes her into a seat in front of the mirror and flits around, an eyeshadow palette in one hand and a pair of heels in the other, while Raven mostly sits in her bed to laugh at the pair of them.

“Would you relax?” the latter finally tells Clarke, tossing a pillow at her head. “You’re going to chew your lip off.”

“Gross,” says Octavia from where she’s sorting through different blushes.

“What if I fuck up so badly that Bellamy doesn’t get paid?” Her mind flashes through all the potential errors she could make in their routine: missing the lift, turning the wrong way, falling on her ass, somehow making  _ Bellamy _ fall on his ass -

“There’s no way that happens,” says Raven. “Blake’s not that shitty of a teacher. All you have to do is make sure you’re concentrating on the steps instead of how much you want to fuck him.”

“Gross,” repeats Octavia, with much more feeling.

Clarke tosses the pillow right back at Raven. “Uncalled for,” she mutters.

“Come on, it’s not exactly a secret.”

She manages to put up some more token excuses that have Raven relenting with a smirk, and Octavia’s able to finish her work in peace. A knock sounds as soon as Clarke’s slipped into her dress, and Raven helps her with her zipper just as Octavia lets Bellamy in.

“You better be ready, princess, we don’t have time to waste.”

“I’m ready, calm down,” she replies, and turns from the mirror.

The nervous twisting in her stomach somehow fades when she meets his gaze. She can see his confidence written in the straight line of his shoulders, in the sure way he’d strode into the room, and it pulls her spine upright too. 

He looks good, dressed in a suit that still manages to look formal despite the missing jacket. His hair riots, curly and almost too long where it sits against his neck. Heat prickles across her skin at what she can see in his eyes when he looks at her, even as she struggles to put a name to it. It feels like a promise; she bites the corner of her mouth and his gaze flickers.

Raven snorts from where she’s still behind her. “Just get in the fucking car,” she says, and Octavia laughs.

The hotel isn’t that far, less than ten minutes away. Clarke spends almost the whole ride staring out the window, both incredibly aware of how close her knee is to Bellamy’s hand where it rests on the gear shift and trying incredibly hard not to be. His fingers drum out a restless beat against the steering wheel, fidget with the radio dials, but he doesn’t try to strike up a conversation either. 

The light’s fading quickly, languid amber heat settling into dusky blue where it streams through the windshield. She sneaks glances at his face and maps the way that the lengthening shadows render his features new again. He’s both the instructor she’d barely met and the man she now knows almost intimately, the silver scar on his lip from a childhood accident he’d told her about last week sitting next to the new hollows that dusk carves below his cheekbones. She watches the day turn into night on his face and itches for her sketchpad.

It’s with a mingled feeling of regret and relief that she gets out of the car once he’s parked it near a back entrance. She barely has time to take in the building exterior before Bellamy’s got a hand on the base of her spine, ushering her inside. The gentle pressure of his palm against her skin radiates heat. 

She pushes open the door to reveal a dimly-lit hallway that empties out to a bustling kitchen on her left. A guy wearing a fussy waiter’s uniform looks up at their entrance. “Hey, Blake,” he calls, heading over, and Bellamy raises a hand in greeting.

“Not late, are we?”

“Nah, you’ve got a few minutes.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “New girl?”

“Clarke,” she says, holding out a hand; he shakes it, grin widening.

“We’ll head backstage,” Bellamy says, short, and guides her farther down the hall before anyone can say anything. A set of double doors greets her; she can hear muffled music coming through them from the other side. 

“God,” she mutters, before she can help herself, and he looks down at her, sharp.

“You alright?”

“Nervous,” she manages, staring at the doors. It feels ridiculous to admit this now, after all these weeks working on the routine, after practically demanding that he take her in Roma’s place. But it’s the truth, and it slips from her mouth before she can reel it back in.

His hand slips around her waist to grab one of hers; she looks up at him, surprised, to see determination unfurl on his face. His eyes are focused directly on hers; it’s hard to meet his gaze. “It’s going to go great,” he says. “I’m serious. You’ve practiced so fucking much, there’s no way it doesn’t work out. Just - you know I’ll be leading you through the steps. All you have to do is trust me.”

She takes a deep breath. “I trust you.”

“Good.” He doesn’t let go for one moment, then for two. “Clarke.”

“What?”

His expression softens. “Thank you again for doing this.”

She grips his hand, tight. The ridge of his knuckles is so familiar against her fingertips. “It was my pleasure,” she replies, and he opens the doors for both of them.

He catches her up in a hug as soon as they get back to the parking lot, envelope full of cash pressing into her shoulder blade as she breathes into the hollow of his neck. “Thank God it’s over,” she mumbles, and his laugh is loud in the twilight gloom. 

“It was perfect,” he says, and Clarke knows it definitely wasn’t, can easily point out at least two instances where she’d forgotten her next steps and he’d had to improvise something on the spot. But the air between them is swelling with excitement, the flush of victory riding high on his cheeks, and so she lets herself sink into his arms for just a few moments longer.

The car ride back to Kellerman’s is electric, the minutes slipping by like seconds. Bellamy rolls down the windows and turns up the radio as Clarke changes into more normal clothes in the backseat; she watches him staring studiously at the road instead of the rearview mirror the whole time and smiles to herself, nearly giddy.

The feeling doesn’t last long. Miller is waiting for them when they get back, expression tight in the sudden gleam of the headlights that wash over him, and Bellamy’s barely cut the engine before he’s saying, “It’s bad, Bellamy, she’s in her cabin and can’t get up. The doctor wasn’t - there’s blood everywhere, we don’t know what to do -” 

Alarm cuts through her like a knife. 

They’re sprinting before the sentence ends. Clarke’s heartbeat rushes through her ears. The staff cabins loom into view once they round a bend. There’s a knot of people outside of one, all wearing expressions similar to Miller’s; Bellamy shoves through all of them to reveal a twisted-up figure huddled into a mattress. 

Roma’s complexion is waxy, and hair sticks in thick ropes to the sweat on her brow, her neck. Blood, nearly black in the dim light, has slunk its way down her thighs and onto the white sheets beneath her. “Bell,” she gasps, and his knees hit the ground near her bed. 

“What happened,” he demands, quick fingers pushing back strands of hair from her face. Clarke feels someone grab her wrist and turns to see Raven, grim. But it’s Octavia who speaks up, bright anger flaring deep in her eyes from where she sits on the other side of the bed.

“He took her to some back room, wouldn’t let me or Miller go with her,” she says. “He was in a rush, Bell, obviously cared more about not getting caught than doing it properly. She was screaming the whole time - I tried, Bellamy, and Miller did too, but they wouldn’t let us -”

“Fine,” her brother says, brusque, like he can’t bear to hear anymore, but he reaches out to pat a clumsy hand against his sister’s shoulder. “Roma, listen, do you - where does it hurt? What do you need?”

“I have to go,” Clarke blurts out, audible only to Raven, and ignores the other girl’s startled expression. “I’m going to -” She spins on her heel and runs.

The pathway down to the main campgrounds is a blur. She sprints until her parents’ cabin comes into view. When she throws their door open, they’re reading with a pot of tea between the two of them, the way they always do before bed. The sight of it, so familiar and normal, is jarring. 

“I need your help,” she gasps, and Abby is already on her feet. Surprise and disapproval war for dominance on her face; Clarke’s had no time to wash her face. Sweat mingles freely with her heavy concealer, her eyeshadow.

“Clarke, what on earth…?”

“No time, just bring your medical bag,” she says, and is gratified to see resolve straighten her mother’s spine at these words. She follows her back out, both of them ignoring Jake’s shock, and they’re back at Roma’s within minutes.

“Out of the way, please,” says Abby, and the crowd pulsates in surprise before making room. Bellamy’s gaze flicks from her to Clarke in seconds, resignation and relief appearing in equal measure, but he shifts to allow Abby access without letting go of Roma’s hand. “What’s happened here?” 

Roma whimpers and doesn’t respond. Abby’s hands are gentle as they untangle the sheets, as they dip into her medical bag to fish out tools. “I’ll need room,” she says finally, and everyone finally recognizes this as the cue to leave. Clarke, eyes fixed on her mother, is nearly the last to exit; Bellamy shuts the door behind him.

The wait is interminable. Most of the staff dissipates after a hard look from Miller, who’s settled himself on the porch steps. Raven joins him, while Octavia leans against the railing beside her brother. Clarke, feeling terribly out of place, hovers.

The moon has started to rise when the door finally opens. Bellamy straightens up immediately, but Abby ignores him in favor of Octavia. “She’ll be fine,” she says, and relief breaks amongst them, palpable. “She’ll need to rest, but she’ll be okay. Tell her to take it easy for a week or so.”

“Thank you so much,” Bellamy says fervently, but Abby doesn’t meet his outstretched hand with anything other than a glare. 

“We’re leaving,” she says, and Clarke, a gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach, has no choice but to follow. When she looks back over her shoulder, Raven, eyes glittering in the dark, gives her a nod before a bend in the path obscures them from view.

They’re silent for the whole walk back. Clarke re-enters her parents’ cabin to see her father has waited up for them, worry writ large on his face.

“What on earth happened?” he asks, and Abby’s medical bag makes a dull  _ thunk _ where she drops it by the door before turning around.

“I never want you going back there again,” she says, and Clarke jerks around to meet her gaze. It’s hard, with something almost like fear at the edges. 

“Why not?”

Abby shakes her head, terse. “That’s not a crowd I want you getting mixed up with, Clarke. I mean it.”

“Why not?” she asks again, and hot anger slides up her throat, fast and sharp. “What’s wrong with ‘that crowd’?”

“I won’t have it, Clarke!” Abby’s voice suddenly crescendos, and Jake gets up from his seat, alarmed. “Especially not that dance instructor. Boys like him do whatever the hell they want, damn the consequences, and then it’s up to girls like her to clean up his messes! I want you far away from them, you hear me?”

“You think  _ Bellamy’s _ the one who left Roma to drown?” Clarke’s voice strains under the weight of her incredulity. 

Jake is frowning at the both of them now. “It’s late, and clearly a lot has happened tonight,” he starts, placating. “Why don’t we all go to bed and discuss this in the morning?”

But Clarke’s thoughts are speeding far ahead now, tangled up by her mother’s words. Her mother, who had always made pretty speeches about how she’d overcome adversity to become the first female trauma surgeon at her hospital. Her mom, who loved to talk about how she’d walked an impossible path with nothing but her own hard work keeping her company. What had become of that woman? Clarke can’t trace those words back to the figure who stands before her now, nose upturned at the sight of Bellamy’s callused palms clutching Roma’s. 

The realization that Abby won’t believe her if she explains Bellamy’s non-involvement with Roma’s pregnancy slams heavy into her chest. She can see it in her mother’s face, written in the lines pulling her mouth into a frown: to tell this woman that one of the college boys who waited on her in the dining hall was the actual father, that a Yale-educated white boy was the one to throw Roma to the curb once they realized their mistake - Clarke realizes with chilling certainty that it’d be easier to convince the moon.

“I’m leaving,” is what comes out of her mouth instead, and her hand is pushing open the screen door before she makes any conscious decision to do so. Her parents both call her name, Jake the resigned counterpart to Abby’s fury, but the neighboring cabins are close to theirs and she knows they’d rather let her go than cause a scene on the lawn. Her feet take her up the dirt path for the fourth time until she’s crossed the now-familiar bridge, the “KEEP OUT” sign now as much a part of the scenery as the river below her, the trees around her. She keeps going until she’s reached a familiar door, and when she knocks, Bellamy’s startled face greets her.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, and the note of wariness in his voice that she’d thought they’d left behind for good makes her chest tight.

“I’m sorry my mother treated you like that,” she says, and he stares at her for a second before opening his door wider to let her in.

“It’s not anything I’m not used to,” he says once she’s standing in the middle of his room, a little adrift. 

It’s a small space. His bed is five feet away from where she stands by the kitchen counter. His sheets are neatly made. It looks different now, she realizes. Weeks ago, when he’d carried Roma inside and Clarke had promised to help with the hotel showcase, the room had looked foreign, almost alien. Now she recognizes the shoes kicked off by the door. She knows what the bottle of aftershave on his dresser smells like on his skin.

“That doesn’t mean it’s right,” she replies finally.

A record player is whispering some slow, jazzy music from its place on his bedside table. He looks at her, nearly inscrutable, before the corner of his mouth relaxes, almost imperceptible. “Okay,” he says, and gestures to the one tiny chair he’s got sitting by the fridge. “Take a seat.”

She has to move a couple of his shirts to his tiny kitchen table before she can sit. It feels like a forbidden thing, the cotton slipping between her fingers unbearably intimate, as if residual heat from his body might still linger in its folds. The air around them is hot, nearly sticky with humidity. 

He leans against his dresser and watches her fold herself into the chair, hands braced on the wood behind him. His fingers tighten, once, and that’s the only hint she gets before he’s opening his mouth again. “So why are you here?” he asks.

If there’d been any hint of disapproval in his tone, she’d have gotten right back up and left. But there’s nothing but curiosity in his voice, not even the wariness she so dislikes, and so she keeps her seat. “Is Roma okay?” she replies.

It’s not a neat dodge, and the tilt of his head lets her know it. Still: “Sleeping now. Octavia’ll take her shift in the morning.”

“Good.” There’s a lull. The record player clicks, muted, into the silence. A new song starts to slide out, smooth as smoke. “If she needs anything,” Clarke starts, “I’lm happy to help where I can.”

“That’s very generous of you.” 

He pushes off the dresser and covers the scant space between them in seconds. She has to tilt back her head to meet his gaze. The sternness of his brow is belied by the curve of his mouth, softened as if the thread pulling it taut has loosened. “Isn’t it getting a bit past your bedtime, princess?”

She stands up, and she’s close enough to feel the heat radiating from his chest. “I can leave if you want me to,” she says, and she even means it. The last thing she wants is to be another girl from class, taking what she can without asking, reading his professionalism as true interest. But his gaze sharpens when her voice trails off, and the sudden weight of his hand at her waist is achingly familiar.

“Stay,” he says, and she tucks herself close to kiss him.

He tastes like coming home after a long day, smells like the pine trees outside his cabin and the laundry detergent the campsite’s general store stocks in bulk. He’s incredibly warm, or maybe she’s just overheating; either way, she’s pushing up the hem of his shirt in what feels like seconds. He breaks their kiss for a moment to pull the fabric up over his head, and his mouth is back on hers by the time it hits the ground. Her fingers grip the ridge of his shoulders, his lamp’s amber half-light rendering the line of muscle there in sharp relief; the realization that she is, in fact, already intimately acquainted with the feel of his skin under her palms sends a thrill straight to the pit of her stomach.

He pulls away from her mouth eventually, a furrow reappearing between his eyebrows. “I’m not doing this unless you’re certain,” he says. 

“Bellamy, if you don’t undress me in the next thirty seconds, I’m not doing this at all,” she shoots back, and the bite to her tone makes a smile inexplicably unfurl on his face.

“Bossy,” is all he says, before making quick work of her shirt. Sweat’s beaded its way down her back but there’s no time to be embarrassed about it before he’s pulling the loose fabric off her, hands spreading wide across her shoulder blades.

“Oh, like you’re not bossy at all -  _ fuck,” _ she grits out as his teeth press into her neck. She gathers the last of her wits about her to ask, coolly, “Are you going to take me to bed, or were you planning on bending me over this  _ very  _ small table?”

His grin is nothing short of indecent. “Maybe next time,” he says, before picking her up to deposit her on his mattress. 

She wakes up to the sound of coffee dripping through his tiny percolator. He’s got one window open and nothing but his boxers on as he grabs two mugs from his cabinet. The morning air’s a little chilly as it breezes across her skin, but Clarke knows it’ll be scorching hot by noon.

“Sleep well?” he asks her once he’s poured the coffee out, and she reaches for her mug with both hands.

“Really well,” she tells him after a long sip, and watches the corners of his eyes crinkle a little as he stifles a smile. He settles at the foot of the bed and she leans back against his headboard, studies the long line of his bicep, the soft curve of his ankle as it swings up to press into his opposite knee. “So,” she says, and her heart is fluttering, just a little bit. “NYU?”

His head snaps up to meet her gaze. “Yeah. I’m a, uh, history major. Trying to get a teaching license.” She can tell she’s thrown him. “Don’t tell me you also -”

“Barnard,” she corrects, and there’s a half-second of disbelief before he’s smiling for real, a laugh spilling out from between his teeth like sunshine.

“Uptown girl,” he teases, and she rolls her eyes, unable to help her matching grin.

His hand reaches over to rest on her shin then. His palm is still coffee-warm from curving around his mug. His gaze is steady when it meets hers, something soft unspooling in its hidden depths. It makes her heart constrict. “So I’ll get to see you again.”

She takes his hand in hers, interlocks their fingers. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I’m keeping you around.”


End file.
